


Flower of Love

by sproutingsons



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ableism, F/M, M/M, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Wedding Planning, found family trope, honeymoon coming soon, i watched too much four weddings and look where it got me, ishmael ‘i don’t have to pretend i do not see it because i am already blind’ dupont, mild homophobia, mostly just nice wedding feelings, terry ‘i was in the navy’ wellings, they are in love!!!!!, very light angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutingsons/pseuds/sproutingsons
Summary: If you had asked Terry when he was a younger man, he would have shrugged at the idea of marriage. It had never appealed to him, a formal ceremony to recognize a love that's already a known quantity. His parents were never formally married, and that didn't make their partnership any less real. He'd never have pegged himself as the type of guy to want to go through all the fuss of it -- picking centerpieces, flowers, the menu -- until, that is, he met Ishmael.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	Flower of Love

**Author's Note:**

> “I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better  
> than the poet’s crown of bays”
> 
> Flower of Love, Oscar Wilde

Even when the U.N.S. Arnold was sinking, Terry never felt this scared. He'd never understood it, how remarkably calm he'd been able to stay even as the belly of the ship was flooded waist high with freezing water. The medic said he was in shock, but he didn't feel like he was in shock. Wasn't shock supposed to make you blackout? He remembered it very clearly. He remembered wading out of the boiler room, how loud the water was around him. He couldn't see any of his crewmates, prayed they had already gotten out but also desperately hoped they hadn't left him behind. White-hot shame at that -- how cruel a man was he that he didn't want to die alone?

Red's voice shook him out of his reverie, "You feeling alright, Terry?" 

Terry was brought back down to earth by the gravelly bass of his friend’s voice. He was standing in front of a full-length mirror, more dressed up than he'd ever been, and he was less than an hour away from getting married.

If you had asked Terry when he was a younger man, he would have shrugged at the idea of marriage. It had never appealed to him, a formal ceremony to recognize a love that's already a known quantity. His parents were never formally married, and that didn't make their partnership any less real. He'd never have pegged himself as the type of guy to want to go through all the fuss of it -- picking centerpieces, flowers, the menu -- until, that is, he met Ishmael. He understood, then, the appeal of a big to-do. He'd been laying awake one night and he looked over at the man sleeping beside him, with a sliver of moonlight cutting a line across the small of his back, and he'd been possessed by a sudden, irrepressible urge to shout his love from the mountain-tops, to wave a banner over the seas and their kingdoms, to break down the gates of heaven and carve desire into craggy cloud cliffs, the desire to belong and _be belonged to._ He'd nearly asked Ishmael to marry him the next day, but he had a sense of pride about him and waited until he could get a ring. All in all, he'd proposed 3 days after, on the front steps of their house. 

_The sun was setting, and the cool September air put a soft spring in his step as he walked hand in hand down the narrow streets of New Orleans. He couldn't stop smiling, grateful, in a strange way, that his partner couldn't see what a flushed mess he was. They'd done a lap of the park and despite his best efforts, Terry couldn't find the right spot to do it. He wasn't looking for the right backdrop, he knew Ishmael wouldn't care about something like that, but he couldn't very well do it anywhere, if only because of his own misplaced chivalry. He'd grown almost agitated on their trip back, frustrated with his luck. It was as they approached the house that Ishmael had turned to him with a frown._

_"What's wrong with you?" he asked, his thin brows knitting together behind his usual dark glasses._

_"Nothin'," Terry said, trying to keep his voice even, "what's wrong with you?"_

_Ishmael had stopped them then, turning Terry toward him. "I'm serious, Terry. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head-- what is it?" His thumb traced slow arcs on the backs of Terry's knuckles._

_Terry shrugged, looking down at his feet. The ring box in his pocket felt like it was a million pounds. He'd ruined his chances of proposing today, hadn't he? He couldn't muster up the courage at the park and now he would have to go inside and hide the ring in his dresser drawer again, get ready for bed as if this had never happened and lay down beside him that night, kiss him goodnight knowing that they were spending one more night in a state of impermanence._

_But then again, a voice in the back of his head whispered, you've always been awfully good at being alone._

_But Terry stopped himself -- he didn't want that, hell, Ishmael had been the one to make him realize he didn't want that. This was his forever, ring or no ring, and he'd never have to be alone again if he didn't want to. He was seized, once again, by that longing that gripped him a few nights ago, and before he realized it he was speaking aloud._

_"Marry me."_

_Ishmael's breath caught in his throat, his thumb freezing in its familiar pattern. A bird chirped. A car went by. Terry spoke again._

_"Marry me?" he asked, taking Ishmael's other hand in his. He tried to parse out the emotions flitting across the other man's face, but the dark glasses obscured most of them. His heart was beating in his ears, blood crashing through his veins as he stood, waiting for Ishmael to just say something already._

_Slowly, Ishmael drew his hands back and looked up at Terry, "Terry," he began, his voice shaking slightly, " If this is you playing a joke on me, it isn't funny." Terry recognized the look on his face -- Not shock, but fear. His heart clenched, hard, he couldn't stop himself from lifting the taller man's glasses from his eyes, his own hands shaking with emotion. The glasses revealed the sickly pale green eyes, rimmed slightly red with the effort to hold back tears._

_"Oh, Ishmael," he breathed, cupping the other man's cheek gently. Ishmael leaned into the touch, his one good eye searching for any hint of insincerity in Terry's voice. Terry pressed their foreheads together, breathing deeply with the effort it took not to break into tears himself. With the hand not on Ishmael's cheek, he reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the small ring box, pressing it into Ishmael's quivering hands, "Never, you know I'd never-" he cut himself off before he could work himself up. Feeling the velvet of the box in his hand, Ishmael looked down at it, his mouth hanging open slightly in shock. He opened it, revealing the silver band inside. It was a long, quiet time, as Ishmael's sight tried its hardest to focus on the ring, clouded as it was with tears by this point. He reached for it, but Terry stilled his hand, falling to one knee before him._

_"When I met you, all I wanted to do is forget. Forget about Europe, about the Navy, about everything. And I was sick that I couldn't, sick that I'd let them change me and twist me up inside, and I felt so useless, felt like I'd done something wrong each time I'd wake up in a sweat or have my heart start to race at the sound of a foghorn. I thought I'd left my heart in Shell Beach, and most of my feelings in Bootcamp. But you let me in, even though I couldn't do the same, and you let me fumble my way through loving you even though I know it hurt you sometimes. You gave me the chance to prove to myself that I didn't lose everything after I left the Navy, that in reality, the only thing I'd lost was my way home. I don't ever want to lose my way home again," He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice once more, "I want to marry you, Ishmael DuPont. More than anything."_

_Ishmael scrubbed roughly at his tear-stained face, his other hand holding onto both the ring box and both of Terry's hands tightly, his sharp knuckles white with tension. He kept trying to speak but was cut off each time by a fresh wave of tears before finally settling for pulling Terry up off his knees and nodding enthusiastically. A well of joy bubbled up in Terry's chest, and he kissed Ishmael laughing, freeing one of his hands to cup at Ishmael's cheek once more, wiping the tears away with his thumb. He pressed his forehead to Ishmael's again and held him close, helping Ishmael to pull the ring out of the box, a plain silver band that wouldn't get in his way when playing the piano, and slide it onto his left ring finger._

_"Je t'aime," he whispered, letting the ring box fall to the ground. Ishmael wrapped both of his arms around Terry and embraced him fully, burying his nose in Terry's chest and holding on tight, leaning into him. Chuckling softly, Terry wrapped his arms around him and kissed him on the crown of his head, trying to commit the moment to memory forever._

Six months later, here they were: an hour before the ceremony was to begin. Terry took himself in in the mirror before him- the black of his suit cut an imposing figure of him, made no less severe by the black tie around his neck. The narrow cut of the suit jacket made his chest less rounded and hid some of the loss of muscle tone from his days in the service, squaring him out and reminding Terry (only vaguely) of his Navy dress uniform, the deep blue with garish gold buttons across it. His waistcoat was a deep, pine green, appearing a plush velvet, but being, in reality, thinly lined to combat the April heat. He'd never worn a suit like this, not even to his parents' funeral before he left for basic training. Red, his best man, looked incredibly stylish in the pine green suit he wore that matched Terry's waistcoat, his wedding gift along with the matching dress for Kiara, who had taken on the role of Ishmael's maid of honor. Ishmael had been crushed when his sister hadn't responded to his invitation, but Terry had done his best to make sure that he knew that he was surrounded by people who loved him, blood relative or not. 

He nodded to Red in the mirror, and his friend broke into a wide smile, clapping him on the back heartily. "I never thought I'd see the day, man." He laughed, lifting his face to the ceiling. "I'm glad I got to see it though."

A flush of shame warmed Terry's face. He'd been overseas when Red and Kiara had tied the knot, hadn't even found out about it until he got back. He would've known sooner if he'd bothered to read the letters Red had sent him, but he'd been foolish then. It meant a lot to him Red had come and had been so supportive on top of it all. He didn't know if he would've been able to do it without him here. Red knew all of this, of course, knew him better than anybody, except for maybe Ishmael. After Red checked to make sure the coast was clear, He led Terry out of the room and began their trek down to the kitchens. They'd all gone over this plan a hundred times, but Terry went through it one more time. He and Ishmael had decided to both walk down the aisle, it being both of their weddings, of course, but Terry had insisted on being able to see Ishmael come in. He was a bit of a chauvinist at heart, perhaps, because he wanted to see his love walk down the aisle, wanted to watch everyone else in awe of how lovely they were, have that pride swell in his chest of _his fiance_ being the one to draw that attention. After he and Red had left for the altar, Red would shoot Kiara a text to let her know she needed to head down. He couldn't imagine how nervous Ishmael must feel. Neither of them had their family in attendance, but at the very least he had the closest thing to a brother with him, his best friend of nearly 20 years. Ishmael and Kiara were close, sure, but it wasn't the same, and he knew that. Red must have seen the tension in his face because he sighed, chuckling to himself as they headed for the stairwell. 

As Red was about to lead him down the grand stairway, Kiara opened the door across the hall, Ishmael’s dressing room, her eyes flooding with relief at seeing the boys. She pulled Red close to her for a kiss then whispered something in his ear that made Red's brows furrow slightly. He kissed her temples and shut the door after her, motioning for Terry to come closer. 

"What's going on?" He asked, trying to get past his friend to the closed door. He could see in her face that something was wrong. Panic gripped his chest as he pushed past the other man. Red grabbed his arm, stilling him, "Wellings, you know how he is. He's nervous as all hell and talking to you is only gonna make him puke again-" Red cringed, obviously not meaning to let that particular piece of information slip. 

"Again?" Terry exclaimed, pulling his arm away, "You can't just not let me see him!" 

But Red grabbed him again, spinning him around, "Terry! Listen to me, Jesus!" He put his hands heavy on his shoulders, "Ishmael's a grown-ass man. You know him better than anyone, so if you say you should talk to him, I'm not going to stop you, but think this through for a second. Do you need to talk to him because it's gonna make him feel better, or is it gonna make _you_ feel better?" 

Terry stopped, slumping slightly. He knew his friend was right. "Does he need more time before the ceremony? To like, y' know -" he gestured vaguely to try and indicate various straightening ups. 

"Nah, you know Kiara's got him. Now come on, we gotta go." 

Dutifully, Red led him through the building, distracting him with a quip any time he unconsciously craned his neck to look behind them, as if Ishmael would be running down the hall after them. 

The venue itself was small, a historic music hall right on the water, with willow trees hanging low over the murky tides and scattering the lake with off-white blossoms. Just behind the hall, at the edge of its grounds, was a grotto, the sprawling branches of the willows made a thready canopy over the little cove. The makeshift walls were made up of shrubbery and lined with irises and swamp azaleas, blooming a splatter of sunsetting colors around the space. From inside, you could see the edge of the lake through the foliage, and hear the lapping of the waves on its shore. 30 or so chairs were nestled in the space, all facing the trunk of the willow in neat rows. There was no aisle runner on the ground, the wild grass trimmed lovingly down to accommodate the event, and the natural unevenness worn away in time with repeated footfalls and careful maintenance. It was beautiful, Terry had assured Ishmael, describing the way the light cascaded down through the branches and over the space. He hadn't needed to describe the flowers, seeing the wonder in his partner's eyes at the swirls of color; It was perfect, and as Terry heard the band kick up it hit him, square in the chest, that he was about to get _married_. The audience rose as he approached, the strings swelling gently. He gripped Red's arm tightly, willing himself not to trip over his feet as he made his way down the makeshift aisle. The trunk of the tree was wrapped in green netting, _"Li_ _ke a fishing net!" Ishmael had proclaimed with a wide grin after a few too many glasses of wine,_ with wildflowers laced through it. Lanterns hung from the low-lying branches, casting the shady space in pools of yellow light. He and Red got to the front and stood in their places, facing the lake to the left of the grove. The sunset cast pastel colors over the water, the fallen blossoms slowly disappearing under the surface as they grew more waterlogged. He wondered, briefly, if his parents would be proud of him. A part of him, most of him, even, knows that they would have adored Ishmael. They would have been so happy for him, so pleased their little boy was settling down with someone he loved. But there was still a small part of him that remembered the lady who lived down the street from him that'd threatened to set him on fire if he ever became a queer to "save his parents the trouble". That same lady who came over for lunch every Sunday after service because her children had all passed. He can rationalize it all he wants, that his parents felt bad for a lonely neighbor and put up with her fringe beliefs out of a sense of Christian obligation, but a small part of him always wondered, continues to wonder, what his parents really thought, what they really wanted for their only son. That's part of the reason he didn't object when Ishmael had said he wanted the church to have nothing to do with their wedding. He was brought out of his thoughts by Red elbowing him in the side and nodding towards the aisle. 

Walking down the aisle, leaning slightly on his cane, was Ishmael in all of his glory. His long, dark hair was down, swept artfully back from his face. His suit was plain, black, and slimly cut, with a pine green turtleneck to match Terry's waistcoat. His dark glasses were on straight, and he was smiling more than he was grimacing even if he looked slightly pale under the setting sun. He took Terry's breath away entirely, the long lines of him graceful despite his uneven gait. Kiara looked radiant next to him, with heavy gold jewelry and her long braids swept up into a headscarf that matched her long dress. As he took his place next to him, it was all Terry could do to not lean over and kiss him right there. The officiant smiled at them and began to speak, "Dearly beloved, we're gathered here today to celebrate..." 

* * *

The thing about marriage, Ishmael thought, was that there were far too many people involved in it. You have the newlyweds, then the officiant, and the entire bridal party, the 6 or so closest friends of both bride and groom, and then you have the family, both sides of each one half forming a magnificent whole of baby powder and wet kisses on the cheek and passive-aggressive comments about how he really needed to eat more. Not to mention how long the whole thing was. Crowds gave him headaches, but then again, most things gave him headaches. This was probably the least painful version of the whole thing, all in all -- not that it was _painful_ , necessarily, marriage is a beautiful thing and he loves Terry more than anything, obviously, because he is marrying him after all, but it was just... not necessarily painless. He felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face. Kiara hummed and gently dabbed it away with the hand towel she was holding. 

"If you were the first person who lost their lunch on their wedding day, mon cher, there wouldn't be nearly so many fun Youtube videos." She said, her voice tinkling silvery and bright in his ringing ears. He groaned as she left the bathroom, resting his temple against the side of the toilet bowl. He felt like he was going to die, which was stupid because he knew he wasn't going to die, and he really just needed to stop feeling so bad because Terry was, in fact, the one who almost died most recently and he was being foolish. _Terry_ , he thought, _is making a terrible mistake with all this_. Really, what on earth had compelled him to go through with this? He knew, perhaps better than anyone, what all of this entailed, what _Ishmael_ entailed, with the eyes and the lungs and everything else, which were all burdensome and terrible and not something any normal person would ever put up with. His sister had told him this when he was fourteen and he was hiding in the woods on May Day because Berthe Dufresne had tried to kiss him.

_"You think it was easy to get her to agree to kiss you? I had to bribe her with Madeleines from the kitchen, the absolute slob, and there you go and fuck it up!" she yelled, towering over him from his seat on the ground, "Thankless fucking work it is, trying to help your sorry ass."_

_"Ghyslaine, I'm sorry, I-" He started, holding back tears._

_She huffed, putting her hands on her hips, "It doesn't matter, anyway. It's not like you're ever going to find a wife."_

_"You don't know anything!" He'd shouted, scrambling backward. She was seventeen and had been dating Edgar Moineau for three years. Two weeks ago he'd come to the house while she was out with her friends to ask his father if he could marry her. Ishmael hadn't heard what his father had said, but he was pretty sure Ghyslaine would marry him regardless because she's always done whatever she wanted. Standing over him, she'd looked at him as if he were a curious bug, a queer thing she'd found in the yard, with a mix of pity and condescension._

_"Husbands are supposed to take care of their wives, connard. How are you ever to do that?"_

He didn't have an answer to that, and she'd left him there, with his runny nose and trousers that were just shy of too short. He'd wanted to throw up then, too, but he didn't. He wonders now what might have happened if he'd kissed Berthe Dufresne; if he could have been like Edgar Moineau and asked her father for her hand, what would he have said? How does one even go about asking for someone's hand in marriage? If Terry hadn't asked him, he never would have done it, he knows that much. It hadn't even occurred to him- that isn't to say he hadn't wanted to spend the rest of his life with Terry, he did, and does, but to propose? To deny him that last bit of plausible deniability? It seemed almost cruel to him at the time. Terry tells him he needs to work on his self-esteem more. He realizes, sitting on the cream and white tile, _that_ is what he's so worried about, what he was nervous about from the beginning. Being trodded out like a horse in front of an audience without a piano to hide behind. It's very disorienting, he knows, to be aware of a plurality of people watching you and yet being unable to see a single face clearly. 

"You need to get up, cher." Kiara murmured, rubbing his shoulders. He didn't want to get up at all. He really, really wanted to just go back to bed or skip the whole thing altogether and go straight to their honeymoon, two weeks in Eastern France at a resort in the French Alps. (Terry had always wanted to see where he grew up, and this was... close enough. Sure, he may have technically grown up in Southwest France, a short way away from Saint-Jean-d'Angely, and only ever visited the Alps once before when he was very young, but Terry hadn't pushed it. They both knew he had reasons for not wanting to go back.) But that wasn't really an option, and the more he thought about it the more he realized he wanted to go through with this wedding. He thought of Terry, standing there in his suit, surrounded by the wildlife in the place he grew up, and his heart clenched not in pain or fear, but with joy. He shrugged Kiara's hand off his shoulders and pushed himself up. He didn't bother looking in the mirror, trusting Kiara more than he did his own blurred, undersaturated vision. He sat back down on the sofa as Kiara shut the door behind her, her face lighting up when she saw Ishmael sitting upright. 

"Ready?" She asked, taking a seat on the coffee table and picking up a hairbrush. Ishmael nodded affirmatively, and she smiled warmly, turning him gently away from her so she could brush through his long, walnut-colored hair. She hummed an old jazz standard under her breath as she worked, one that Ishmael recognized but couldn't place in his state of anxiety. 

"I can hear your thinking," Kiara said, running her delicate fingers through his hair, "What is it?" 

Ishmael sighed, twisting his fingers in his lap. "Do you think it'll work out? The marriage, I mean. Do you think we'll be happy?" 

"Will you be happy?" She asked.

"Of course _I_ will," Ishmael said quickly, worrying his lip between his teeth, "But do you think he will be?"

"Why do you think he won't be?" 

"I'm afraid he'll get sick of me, sick of helping me." It was, in Ishmael's mind at least, a reasonable fear. He couldn't get around as easily as other people, he couldn't stand being on a boat for any length of time (he got horribly seasick and disoriented, only compounded upon by his lack of sight), which made almost all of Terry's favorite activities unavailable to him. Why would he want to spend the rest of his life with someone who couldn't even spend time with him doing what he loved? And it'd only gotten worse after the fire. Some days, his chest pain was so bad he could barely talk in between fits of wheezing, spending the day in bed with his inhaler and a dehumidifier atop his nightstand, trying to sleep through the worst of it. On better days, depending on his muscle weakness, he might walk with a cane or stay in bed anyway, at the very least more alert and able to get work done. He was comforted, slightly, that his earlier vomiting hadn't been induced by a coughing fit, which might've meant calling the whole event off. Terry had been nervous about him standing for the whole ceremony, especially so close to so many flowers and their various pollens, but he'd compromised on Ishmael using his cane and while Ishmael had protested at the time, he was secretly very glad he had it today, if for no other reason than that he felt faint with nerves. He didn't notice Kiara had pulled her hand away from his head until she spoke again. 

"Did you know I am sick to death of Lenard Cohen?" 

"What do you mean?" Ishmael asked, bewildered at the nonsequitur. 

"Lenard Cohen. It's all Armand ever sings in the shower, or when he's washing dishes or doing anything else he could possibly be doing that could be done while singing a Lenard Cohen song. He sounds like shit when he sings, too," Kiara turned him around so he was facing her. Through his right eye's cloudy scope he could make out the braids heaped high on her head, and the heavy golden earrings that dangled beside her neck. He couldn't define any facial features unless he really focused, but he could imagine the rich eye makeup covering her lids and could see the mahogany shine of what was (most likely) her lips, "I'm sick of it. But do you know what? I've never asked him to stop." 

"I'm confused," Ishmael said, shaking his head slightly.

"I never asked him to stop because he loves it. I see him folding laundry, singing Suzanne, or whatever other song, and he looks so happy I can't bear to ask him to stop. I don't ask him to stop because I love him, and no matter how much I hate Leonard Cohen, I love seeing him happy more." She put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Terry will get sick of how slowly you walk some days, just like how you'll get sick of him coming home smelling like seawater, but you'll get over it, or work through it because you love one another. That's what marriage is; choosing to love one another no matter what. Do you understand?" 

Ishmael nodded slowly, taking in what she'd just said. He wasn't sure if it was the same- if Red's love for a dead Canadian was the same as his chronic lung problems, blindness, and ceaseless pessimism, but he was comforted by the words nonetheless. Love is a choice, he knew that much, and he knew he'd made that choice and would keep making that choice, and he trusted Terry when he said he would do the same. He smiled at Kiara, putting his opposite hand over hers, resting on his shoulder, "Thank you, Kiara, sincerely. I don't know if I could do this without you." 

Kiara pulled him in for a hug, ignoring his noise of surprise, "You're my family, Ishmael. You and Terry both, family. _Rad sal lave nan fanmi, non_?"

He chuckled, returning the hug. He felt the anxiety in his gut settle to a simmer as he pulled away. Kiara stood up, grabbing his suit jacket and holding it out to him. 

"We're going to be late if we don't hurry." 

He stood, allowing himself to be helped into the jacket and resigned himself to Kiara's picking and fluffing at his appearance until she was satisfied, taking his arm and leading him down the staircase towards the kitchens.

* * *

Terry looked at the man across from him, and for a moment it was like their first date all over again, and Terry had no idea what to do with this beautiful creature, stuttering and tripping over the answers to basic questions because he couldn't wrap his head around the idea of someone like him even talking to Terry, much less asking him questions or wanting to know things about him. At the end of the night, he'd been far too nervous to invite Ishmael in for a drink and later learned that Ishmael had assumed this had meant he wasn't interested, so he was shocked when Terry had called him the next day. The first few months of their relationship had been unstable, with Terry freshly discharged and in-between houses and trying desperately to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. But they'd made it through, thankfully, and not without their troubles, but through nonetheless. Terry realized he should probably be paying attention, given it was his own wedding ceremony, and he tried to tune back into the goings-on around him. 

"-- Today you not only marry the right person, but you also commit to being the right partner, the one with whom the other can stand and face the world. Mr. Wellings, if you please?" She turned to the small table to her left and set down her small book, picking up the small velvet box containing the wedding bands. Ishmael had been adamant that it wasn't at all fair that he was the only one to get an engagement ring, and knowing Terry wasn't one for jewelry, proposed they instead melt it down and split it between them, to be used in making their wedding rings. Terry took the ring proffered to him, the thin silver band they'd had to get custom made because the assholes at the jewelry parlor tried to make him pay extra for internal engraving, even though he'd made it clear that his mostly blind fiance wasn't going to get much out of a ring with all of the details where he couldn't feel them, and Ishmael had protested because he still hated Terry trying to get people to make exceptions for him and slept on the couch for 3 days but eventually let Terry's stubbornness win out because he loved him, damn it, and recognized this was Terry trying (in his hardheaded way) to show him that. He took Ishmael's left hand and cleared his throat, sliding the circlet around his ring finger as he began to speak. 

"Ishmael Yves-Gregoire Dupont, I vow to honor the promise I make here today, to cherish every day spent in your company, and to be by your side through all things, 'til death do us part," he took a deep breath as he got to the vows he'd written. When Ishmael had suggested it, he'd balked at the idea, but he'd agreed after making Ishmael promise to keep it short, knowing the man's penchant for rambling when he was nervous. "If you had told me when I was 18 that I would be getting married in 10 years, I probably would've socked you in the nose," there was a smattering of laughter at that, "Then again if you had told me at 16 I'd spend 6 years in the Navy, I would've socked you too." More laughter. "My life with you has been beyond my wildest dreams, Ishmael. It's more than I ever could have asked for.

The first time I knew I was in love with you, it was early, probably two or three in the morning. I'd come back from the docks in a foul mood and gone straight to bed without even saying goodnight to you. I woke up to a crash and found you on the floor. When I asked you what'd happened, you told me you knew I was upset, but you had an idea for a piece and needed to write it down, so you'd tried to get to your notebook without turning on the light and you'd tripped over a loose floorboard. I was so annoyed at being woken up, and my back hurt like a bitch, but I just saw you there and I couldn't be mad, because your hair was messy and you were wearing one of my Navy sweatshirts and you looked so upset that'd you'd woken me up, and all I could do was laugh. All I could do was laugh and wait for you to come back to bed, and give you a proper kiss goodnight because I was beating myself up for not doing it earlier. I fell in love with you that night and I fall in love with you every day over and over again. With your heart and your mind, your music and your spirit, everything you are and ever will be. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you." 

He'd worried his vows would be a bit plain, but judging by Ishmael's trembling hand in his, he was proud of what he'd written. He placed a tender kiss to Ishmael's knuckles, who exhaled with a shaky smile and took his glasses off, revealing his wet, celadon green eyes. Nodding to the officiant, he stretched out his hand to take the ring, holding the band between his thin, delicate fingers. 

"John Terrance Wellings, I vow to honor the promise I make here today, to cherish every day spent in your company, and to be by your side through all things, 'til death do us part." Whenever he was overcome with emotion, Ishmael's lilting accent got stronger, so Terry knew he was fighting to keep his words understandable.

"I bought a book of poetry by Oscar Wilde when I was seventeen, and I never really liked it. I didn't understand it, what he meant when he talked about love and the way he described it. I read a lot of poetry when I was young, and I understood more of it than I thought I did at the time, but I certainly didn't understand love then, and it frustrated me. I bought every volume I could find, Keats and Auden and Siken and Frost and anything I could get a hold of. Even if I couldn't find the braille version of something I would sit with a magnifying glass and spend hours pouring over a single page, trying to figure out what I was missing. I went through University thinking I could never be a real musician if I didn't know love, so I listened to love, anything I could find, Bach and Tchaikovsky and Lennon and whomever else, trying to quantify what made something a 'love song', or what a love song was supposed to make me feel. I tried learning love too, tried dating, but nothing stuck, no _body_ stuck until I met you. The night we met I went home and dug up everything I owned, every volume I could find of the poetry I'd forgotten about, and I understood; all of it new to me, as if I was regaining lost sight to only the most beautiful of things, and I owe that to you, and I thank you for it every day," His voice cracked slightly, and Terry squeezed his hand comfortingly, blinking back tears himself. 

"Thank you for your patience, for your gentleness, for your perseverance. Thank you for letting me love you, thank you for helping me and teaching me and sharing with me, thank you for everything. Thank you for listening to me play the same thirty seconds of a piece over and over again for hours on end, thank you for carrying me to bed when I'm drunk and for listening to me wax philosophically for hours about the nature of the universe. By marrying you, I'm vowing to spend the rest of my life trying to give you everything you've given me, and to do my best to make sure you know, every single day, just how much you've given to me." 

Terry sniffed, wiping his eyes with his free hand. His heart seized at the earnestness on Ishmael's face, the tears hanging on the tips of his long, dark lashes. 

Clearing her throat quietly, the officiant smiled indulgently. "It is my honor and privilege to pronounce you married in the eyes of the State of Louisiana. You may now kiss." 

Terry stepped closer to Ishmael and wiped the tears from his cheeks with his thumbs as he cupped his face with his hands. Ishmael pressed his hands to Terry's chest and met his lips softly, a tender, chaste kiss, one that was filled with gentle promise. They pulled apart to their friends' cheers, both grinning hugely. Red slapped Terry on the back heartily, his eyes rimmed slightly pink. "You did good, Wellings, you did real good", he said, choked off slightly and a bit red in the face.

Kiara laughed, her mascara smudged slightly under her wide brown eyes, and grabbed her husband's hand, "Don’t worry, Armand, I won't tell anyone that you cried." 

The band played a jaunty instrumental as they made their way back to the house, the men laughing and calling out as they played their brass and strings, the fiddle player doing a mock jig as he crossed the lawn. Terry couldn't help but steal glances at the man beside him, who was allowing himself to be led by Terry to the house and closing his eyes, basking in the dying light of the sun. He looked unearthly, the sharp planes of his face softened slightly by shadow, the Romanesque line of his nose made duller in the warm glow, the textured, raised skin surrounded most of his eyes smoothed to a fuzzy equilibrium. He looked beautiful with or without the light of the sun shining down, but Terry felt like he was seeing Ishmael, if only for a moment, as a much younger man, who never thought he'd get this far. His heart lurched for a minute, thinking about who his love might have been, how differently things might have turned out if it weren't for that afternoon in August so long ago now. He remembered the night Ishmael had told him about it, how they'd been so drunk and laying on the floor of their apartment, with the windows all open and the AC busted listening to Buddy Holly and trying not to suffocate in the near 100 degrees Louisiana-in-July heat. 

_Terry listened as Ishmael prattled on about something inane, his long limbs loose with drink and gesturing vaguely, taking long drags off a cheap cigarette and obnoxiously blowing the smoke everywhere. There was a long stretch of silence afterward, only disrupted by the clink of the whiskey bottle on the hardwood and the sounds of the cars below in the dawn-grey haze. Terry didn't know what'd possessed him to speak, but he did._

_"Do you ever wish you could see?" He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, cursing his heavy tongue and lack of tact. "I'm sorry," he said quickly._

_"Don't be," Ishmael responded, "It's only natural to wonder."_

_At this point they were quite drunk, transcending slurred words and becoming startlingly clear-headed. "Of course I do," Ishmael said resigned, "Who wouldn't? But I did get to see, at one point. I can still see, sort of."_

_Against his better judgment, Terry pressed further, "How did it happen?" The silence between them was long and pregnant. Terry was about to change the subject when Ishmael spoke again._

_"I was twelve. Maman was getting ready for a party the next evening, a garden party, so she was cleaning the stone tiles of the patio. It was a big deal for her, she always wanted to impress the other ladies. So she's scrubbing down the tiles and I'm in the backyard as well, and she goes to pick up the bucket of lye water, and it's heavy and full so I try to help her,_ _je_ _veux_ _lui_ _montrer_ _que_ _je_ _suis_ _un_ _garçon_ _fort_ _,_ _je_ _veux_ _la_ _rendre_ _fière_ _ou_ _quelque_ _chose_ _comme_ _ça_ _, and so I try to pick it up from the handle,_ _and I can't lift it so I lift from the bottom like my mother does with the groceries and It's too heavy,_ _so I tel_ _l her_ _"_ _Maman_ _,_ _c'est_ _trop_ _,_ _je_ _ne_ _peux_ _pas_ _le_ _tenir_ _",_ _but she just looks at me and she doesn't do anything, and I try to set it down again but it's too heavy so I tip backward, and I'm yelling and yelling but all she does is stand there, and the bucket is on my chest and the water spills onto my face and I turn my head to the side, and I shut my eyes tight, but it's burning me on my face and my neck and I'm yelling still but she just looks at me, and I try to scramble backward, and the next thing I know papa is the one yelling and spraying me with the hose, to get the lye water off of me."_

_He took a deep breath, letting his long, rambling sentence hang in the air for a moment. "She goes into the house to phone the ambulance, and when she's in the hospital room with me and I hear her start to cry, and I ask her why and she tells me she's going to have to cancel the garden party, and she was worried what Madame Masson from down the street would say when she heard."_

_There was another pregnant silence, this one the space of several minutes before Ishmael spoke again. "I did the right thing though, by turning my head. That's why I can still partially see out of my right eye because my nose stopped the water from dripping on it."_

_"I'm sorry," Terry said, reaching out to squeeze the other man's hand._

_"Don't be, it was an accident," Ishmael replies, even though they both know that's not what Terry is apologizing for._

_"So how much can you see?" Terry asked, trying to steer the conversation back into safer territory._

_"Colors, most of them anyway. I have trouble distinguishing darker ones, but I can still get a sunset. Not see it, per se, but understand it. Enjoy it. Shapes, too. It's like... looking at impressionist art through a dirty funhouse mirror. You can decipher some big things, you can tell if there's a field of wheat or a sea, but you lose all the little stuff. Hell, even most of the medium stuff. You lose the story behind it."_

_"What do I look like?" Terry blurted, his ears flushed red at the jerky, sudden tone of his question. Ishmael turned to him, facing him for the first time. "Honestly?" he said, "a brown blob."_

_Terry laughed at that, closing his eyes and tipping his head back against the hardwood floor. Ishmael scooted closer, abandoning the whiskey bottle in favor of sitting fully upright, leaning on his hands behind him. "But when I get closer, I can see more," he said softly._

_"Oh, yeah?" Terry replied, leaning on his elbow and turning onto his side to get a better look at his partner._

_"Yeah," the thin man murmured, drawing a hand up to trace over Terry's features, "when I get closer I can see your eyes, how they're a lighter brown. I can see the white of your teeth when you smile, or how you blush." His long, elegant fingers swept over his cheeks, feeling their way through a well-worn map of the man's face as Terry preened under the attention. "If I'd known you were this handsome when we met I wouldn't have known what to do with myself."_

_Terry snorted at that, "If I'd known what a tried-and-true cheeseball you were when we'd met I never would've moved in." Ishmael's face broke into a lazy grin, lopsided and genuine._

_"You're the one who's done this to me, mon cher. I hope you aren't terribly disappointed."_

_Terry leaned in, nearly closing the gap between them, "Don't worry, you're still the worst cynic I've ever known."_

_Ishmael huffed a laugh, the dampness of his breath hot on Terry's cheek_ _. "_ _T_ _u_ _as_ _de_ _la_ _chance_ _que_ _je_ _sois_ _amoureux_ _de_ _t_ _oi."_

_Terry closed the distance, pressing a gentle kiss to Ishmael's mouth, trying to communicate all of the things he couldn't say out loud. I'm sorry your mom wasn't there for you. I wish I could have been. I want to be there for you from now on if you'll let me, but I can't promise you I always will. You deserve someone who can._

He was pulled out of his reverie by Ishmael squeezing his hand. "What?" he asked, squeezing back. 

Ishmael shrugged, "Nothing. I'm just happy." 

Terry beams at him. "I love you." 

"I love you too," Ishmael replied easily. 

The wide, glass pane double doors were flung open grandly before them, the gauzy, white curtains spilling out of the open windows that framed it. The reception hall was airy, with a small cluster of tables is off to the left side, a large dancefloor taking up most of the space. An old jazz standard was playing in the background as everyone sat down at their tables, talking and laughing from across them or craning their neck around to say hi to someone sitting just behind them. They were a tightly knit bunch, and the sounds of raucous and riotous joy swept high into the air, dancing in-step to Ella Fitzgerald's swinging eighths. The 'head' table, or rather, the table that Ishmael, Terry, Red, and Kiara were sat at, was just beside a window, and the breeze blew loose a few strands of Ishmael's slicked-back hair. Kiara made an amused noise and pushed the strands off his forehead, gazing fondly at the newlyweds.

"The ceremony was beautiful, and you both look so happy," she smiled, leaning into Red's side, "the two of you deserve it." 

"Thank you, Kiara, for everything," Terry said, taking a deep drink from the wine glass beside him, "and you too, Red. We couldn't have done it without you." Ishmael nodded resolutely in agreement, raising his glass in a small toast. Terry joined him, and Kiara laughed again as she and Red raised theirs.

"So, you're leaving tonight then?" Red asked as dinner was set down in front of them. 

Terry nodded, "Our flight will land at sunset tomorrow. I can't wait to see the mountains." 

Red turned his attention to Ishmael, "You excited to see the motherland?" 

"It will be good to be back. I've always liked the Alps." Ishmael mused, picking at the salad in front of him. Terry could see the way he gripped too tight at the fork, the lines around his eyes that grew a little more defined, the way his eyes seemed duller than usual. The day had taken a toll on him, he knew. He also knew that Ishmael was trying his best not to let it show, so he didn't call him out on it. Instead, he squeezed his knee gently under the table and turned to the plate of pasta before him. Kiara caught Terry's eye and winked at him when they'd finished dinner, leading Red off to talk to other friends. Ishmael tried not to let out a relieved sigh when they left but largely failed. Terry leaned in close to him, taking his hand under the table, "You alright, Moby?" 

Ishmael let out an annoyed huff at the nickname but didn't release Terry's hand. "I'm fine, just... tired. You know how I get." 

"It's been a long day, no one would judge you for opting out of the dancing," Terry said, gesturing to the growing crowd of people on the dance floor. 

"Terry, it's a wedding. I'm pretty sure dancing is legally required." Ishmael laughed, taking another sip of wine.

"Not if you don't want to, it isn't," Terry replied earnestly, "this is your wedding too. I know you compromised with me on a lot of things, and I'm grateful for that, but you should get the chance to enjoy yourself today." 

Though Terry couldn't see Ishmael's eyes behind his dark glasses, he could tell the other man rolled his eyes. "I am enjoying myself, it's my wedding day. I'll be fine, Terry, really." 

Terry sighed. "If you're sure," he said, giving Ishmael's hand one last squeeze. That'd been something he learned the hard way; when to let it go. Even though Terry worried for him constantly, Ishmael was a grown man and Terry's fussing had been the source of countless arguments between them. Though Terry did like to think that Ishmael had gotten better at not pushing himself too hard during their relationship, Terry had also gotten better at not under-estimating his lover. 

"Can I have this dance, then?" He asked, standing up and dipping into a low bow. Ishmael rolled his eyes again but was smiling by the time he took Terry's hand. The night carried on, and as the guests finished eating they took to the dance floor, singing and swaying along to the familiar tunes that played from the speakers. They'd chosen to ignore the first dance and public cake cutting, given that neither of them had any interest in making a public spectacle of themselves any further than they had already. They held each other close in the crowd, Ishmael's arms wrapped leisurely around Terry's neck and Terry's looping gently around his waist as a soft Amy Winehouse track played. Ishmael hummed along in Terry's ear, smiling tiredly and leaning on his partner, now husband, as they swayed. They broke apart to say their goodbyes, overwhelmed with a flurry of well-wishes from every angle. 

As the party wound down, they were hurried out by Kiara and Red, who called them a car and promised they'd do the cleanup work, and would not hear anything else about it. Terry resolved to bring them back an entire case of wine. Ishmael put his head on his shoulder in the car, still sleepily humming a tune to himself as he played with their interlaced fingers. They got to the airport with little time to spare but got through security relatively quickly (Ishmael let Terry put them in a disability-accessible security line, but only because he was too tired to argue), changing into sweats in the airport bathroom rather than having to sit through the 20-odd hour flight in their suits. They got a few congratulations from fellow passengers, a couple of odd looks from passersby, but within the hour they were in the air, Terry laying his head in Ishmael's lap, completely knocked out from the combination of wine and heavy anti-nausea medicine, Ishmael threading his long fingers through his short, curly hair and listening to what was, no doubt, a fascinating audiobook on some hot-button musicological debate. The stewardess on the plane smiled at the couple, and, having noticed their rings, wondered how many years they've been married. 


End file.
